ROGER
By AussieHottieMjM

DISCLAIMER
I do not own Lord of the Flies or any of the characters.

RATING
This fic is rated K+ for adult situations.

SYNOPSIS
Roger wanders through life confused, alone, and unfeeling.

SETTING
The story takes place five or six years after the novel's end.

AUTHOR'S NOTE
This sadly began as an English assignment. I'm quite ashamed. I should write a more personally inspired work involving the series.

x x x

As the rain falls sadistically in this city, darkness towers so powerfully that the street lights and restaurant signs have little to no effect in lighting my path. For five long years since The Flies, I've wandered aimlessly throughout my life. I cannot concentrate on the present or what is to come because of what happened ing the past - because of what happened on The Flies. The Lord of the Flies. That's what I call the island upon which unspeakable things happened. The name suits it; the island and everything involving it.

I speak to Jack Merridew occasionally. I call him from which ever hotel I happen to be staying at. Tonight, Paris; tomorrow, who knows. Jack is doing better. He was in a worse state than I. You see, upon our return, civilization had once again been forced into our minds. It worked on most of us, but not myself. Perhaps I'll get lucky and fall into the shallow grave of which I've so desparately crawled toward.

I will never get past The Flies. I will never get beyond Piggy's death, which repeatedly haunts my mind. It isn't the blood that had rushed out from his skull that bothered me, nor is it the feeling of insanity that has washed over me. It had been the look on Ralph's face. The feeling, the emotion, I saw in his eyes confused me. It had been an affectionate look; the last one he gave Piggy. There had been a silence, as if in that very instant, sanity came up on us all. But then, it left as quickly as it had come, and madness took over again. What had Ralph felt then? I've had my suspicions. It was a look I never was or had given — love.

And as the cold, perverse rain beats unyieldingly on the ground I stand upon, instead of the love I so desparately long to know, I cling to the same cold perverseness of the rain because I know that the meaning of my life before The Flies will never be the same. It has been ripped from my arms, driving me mad. I have become only a ghost of me.